Thinking Without Thinking
by moonlighten
Summary: December, 2009: England's family Christmas continues with a game of five-a-side football on Boxing Day. (One-sided England/America, mentions Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 40 of the Feel the Fear series.


**26th December, 2009; London, England**

-  
>The Boxing Day morning kickabout was usually England's favourite part of his Christmas festivities, but, then again, he didn't usually spend the evening of Christmas Day attempting to drink himself into oblivion with quite so much zeal. Unfortunately, oblivion had only lasted until seven o'clock, whereupon he awoke with a banging headache, a mouth which tasted like something that Scotland might put on a plate and call food, and an aching bladder, the latter of which ultimately forced him from his bed despite his concerted efforts to ignore it.<p>

As he staggered back from the bathroom after relieving himself, Scotland pounced on him, and sternly ordered that he get dressed in his football gear straight away because: "Don't you realise, England, we've got enough people for a game of five-a-side this year!"

The excitement over the upcoming game had clearly addled Scotland's brain even more than usual, as he neglected to also mention the fact that America had finally arrived, something which came as a bit of a shock when England eventually managed to force himself out of the house and into the bitterly cold morning air, and found him standing on the driveway alongside an impatient-looking Scotland. America, of course, appeared bright and fresh despite his long flight and the early hour, which made England acutely aware that he hadn't bothered brushing his hair, was more than a little green about the gills, and generally looked like something which had been scraped off the bottom of a shoe.

"Merry Christmas," America said in greeting, beaming a broad, dazzlingly-white smile towards England. "Or does today not count as Christmas? I forget."

"Technically not, but it's as near as damn it, I suppose." England's voice came out faint and cigarette-raspy. Smoking was a habit he had thought himself rid of decades before, but his body always remembered it whenever his mind was too intoxicated to exercise full self-control. "Merry Christmas to you, too, America."

America's smile widened a couple of notches. "So, are you ready to get whipped, then?" he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The movement drew England's attention to America's trainers, which were hefty, gleaming affairs which looked as though they might have been designed by NASA. Knowing America, they probably had been. England's own trainers, on the other hand, were old and scuffed, held together only by some miracle of physics which England didn't dare question too closely lest it collapsed under the weight of logic. As he looked down at his shoes, he noticed that he must have unwittingly, in his muzzy-headed state, grabbed the wrong pair of tracksuit bottoms from his chest of drawers, and was wearing the ones that bagged ridiculously around his backside and had grass stains on the knees; the ones which he only usually wore for gardening. A quick glance confirmed that America's tracksuit was also some futuristic looking thing which was doubtless made out of the same material as astronauts' underpants or some such.

England sighed, and tried to surreptitiously rearrange his trousers so they didn't make him look quite so much like he was wearing a nappy. Occasionally, it felt as though some cosmic force or other had decided to dedicate its day to wringing every single drop of enjoyment out of England's.

The feeling just intensified later when they reached the pitch in a nearby park and Scotland won the coin toss. He smirked at England, and said, "America," before England had even finished lifting his hand to reveal the Queen's face.

It was a predictable move on Scotland's part, but a shrewd one nevertheless. Although America might have only the shakiest of grasps on the niceties of the beautiful game – despite taking part in hundreds of the impromptu matches they often played during breaks in World Meetings and the like, he could never be bothered to invest time in perfecting something he dismissed as a pastime for 'little kids and high school girls' – he was fast, strong, and always played to win. America whooped, and then jogged over to start his ridiculously complicated warm-up routine behind Scotland.

Even with America out of the running, England's first choice was still a simple one, so he called out, "Jersey." Not only did she have great ball control and an impressive turn of speed, but the hoary latent remnants of Scotland's sense of chivalry ensured that he would never dare tackle her.

Scotland's eyes narrowed and he nodded once. "Guernsey," he said, clearly acknowledging at least part of the rationale behind England's decision and extending the same to his own, just as England had thought he would.

And now the choices became a little trickier. Prussia seemed the obvious selection as he was a decent enough player, and was also an expert at bending the rules until they creaked under the strain, but England was still annoyed with him following the fiasco that their Christmas dinner had become, and wanted the pleasure of potentially being able to lord a win over him, no matter how petty that might be.

"Canada," he said instead, which prompted Scotland to look at him as though he'd grown a second head, and Canada to ask him to repeat himself as though he believed he'd misheard the name.

"Come on, Canada," England obliged, motioning for Canada to join him and Jersey. "Get a move on."

Canada, like America, wasn't a particularly skilled football player – and indeed usually sat out on games – but England had seen him play ice hockey before, and it had been something of a revelation. He had a feeling that the game would more likely end up as a test of brute strength and endurance rather than finesse, and he hoped Canada would be able to tap into that if pushed, even without a hockey stick in his hands.

Prussia was Scotland's inevitable next choice. Their camaraderie of the previous night had clearly not diminished with the benefit of clearer heads, as Prussia was greeted on to Scotland's team with an effusive hug from his captain, complete with some manly back slapping from both sides.

Again, there was little to choose between Australia and New Zealand in terms of skill, so England went for Australia for much the same reasons as he had Canada. Scotland's subsequent pick of New Zealand left England with a serious dilemma on his hands.

Out of the remaining two, _Mannin_ was definitely the better footballer – Wales was a fantastic rugby player but seemed to lack all coordination when it came to football – but he was much less likely to see it as a personal attack if he were not chosen for one of the teams. Because a little bit of festive cheer had managed to cling on somewhere deep inside England despite everything, he reluctantly sided with sentimentality rather than practicality.

_Mannin_ accepted his position as referee with good grace, and all that was left was to decide who was be goalkeeper for each team. This prompted a rather spirited discussion on Scotland's team, but England gladly took on the role for his own. His stomach had decided to join forces with his head to register their protest at his continued state of consciousness and verticality, and he thought it perhaps best to have something to lean against if the need arose.

As it turned out, he didn't require the safety net of support for very long.

They managed to play proper football for all of around ten minutes before America absentmindedly picked up the ball and started running with it. After that point, it turned into some strange American football-Aussie rules-rugby mash up, despite Mannin's desperate attempts to restore some sort of order to the proceedings.

After a short while of frenzied whistle-blowing, he just gave up and joined in with the chaos, and New Zealand left his goal to do the same. England, conversely, decided to give in to the increasingly strident demands of his sorely abused body to sit the whole mess out altogether, and made his way to sit cross-legged at the side of the pitch and enjoy the ludicrous debacle as a spectator.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Canada was the first man out.

America brought him down with a particularly vicious tackle, but then seemed to forget the entire purpose of the manoeuvre, ignoring the ball as it rolled away across the grass in favour of pinning Canada to the ground.

"Get off me, you jerk," Canada snarled, thrashing against his brother's grip.

America chuckled. "Only if you make me."

He wasn't even breathing hard, clearly unaffected by his brother's concerted efforts to break free.

Further down the pitch, England could see Scotland grab the back of Prussia's T-shirt as he started to storm towards America and Canada, holding him still. Scotland then bent his head to Prussia's ear, presumably telling him not to bother getting involved.

England had no doubts that Canada would be able to deal with the situation himself. Like Scotland and England, America and Canada had wrestled and fought with each other since childhood, and like England, Canada knew how to exploit his stronger brother's weak spots.

True to form, Canada eventually managed to wrest a hand free, which then zeroed in unerringly on a location on America's side – its exact position a secret known only to Canada – that always made him double up with laughter when it was tickled.

"Not fair," America managed to gasp out between sobs of laughter as he rolled away from his brother.

"I think –" Canada's words dissolved into a groan as he stood up, and he quickly shifted his weight onto his left leg, grabbing hold of his right ankle.

As far as anyone could tell, it was just a slight sprain, but Jersey insisted that Canada sit out the rest of the game, such at it was, firmly ignoring his repeated assertions that he'd be fine to carry on. He finally gave in to her badgering when a rather concerned-looking Prussia stepped in to back her up. England chose to ignore the conclusions his brain seemed determined to draw because of that, resolutely standing behind his decision of the previous day to pretend that Prussia and Canada were simply good friends who didn't mind sharing a bed when the need arose.

Wales was felled by a kick to the vital regions that England wasn't entirely certain was accidental on Scotland's part not long after play resumed, and he joined Canada on the bench soon afterwards. England was consequently so distracted by watching Wales clutching his stomach and complaining about how he felt like he was about to throw up his kidneys, that he didn't notice how close Australia and America had got until they almost barrelled in to him.

He leapt to his feet as America tripped Australia into a headlong sprawl – something which would no doubt exacerbate the injuries he'd already sustained on Christmas day – and then hurriedly jumped out of the range of America's flailing arms.

"For fuck's sake, watch where you're going, you bloody idiots," he yelled, more for the satisfaction of venting his annoyance than any hope of either Australia or America paying him any heed, as they were clearly so intent on tussling over possession of the ball that they were pretty much unaware of anything else.

Later, England would put his momentary lapse in judgement down to a dangerous combination of exhaustion, residual blood alcohol, and an impairment in function brought about by his steadily worsening hangover, all of which combined to weaken the walls between certain things which he managed to keep safely compartmentalised when his brain was working at its normal efficiency.

As it was, he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away as Australia yanked America's baggy T-shirt up over his head, revealing an unbroken expanse of golden, sweat-shined skin that seemed to fill England's vision from corner to corner, the rest of the pitch blurring into near-transparency around him.

England scrabbled vainly for the detached place that he usually occupied whenever he was faced with viewing rather more than America than he was exactly comfortable with, but it seemed to continually evade his grasp. Instead, his mind saw fit to draw his attention to the hitherto unnoticed fact that America's tracksuit bottoms were really rather tight, and how snugly they pulled across the curve of his arse as he leant over Australia and tried to feed him his own shirt.

_Jesus Christ._

England tried to think peaceful, soothing thoughts. He thought about rain. And weak tea. About Sunday evenings when there was nothing on the telly and he was too tired to read but too awake to go to bed. And when none of those managed to lessen the warmth curling at the bottom of his stomach, he imagined himself on a rainy Sunday afternoon in off-season Skegness, the Shipping Forecast on the radio and '_Songs of Praise_' on the TV, eating an early tea of stew and dumplings with sticky toffee pudding for afters.

Australia had somehow managed to flip America onto his back, and England's rebellious mind fled thoughts of Skegness, dragging his all-too-willing eyes towards the jut of America's hip bones, revealed by the waistband of his otherwise stupidly clingy trousers as it slid slowly downwards. England's mouth ran bone dry, and each ragged breath he tried to pull in to his suddenly tight chest clicked harshly at the back of his throat.

_Fucking hell._

If calm and collected weren't going to cut the mustard, then England would simply have to get angry enough to snap himself out of it. His ordinary low-level annoyance at the world in general, and America in particular, were normally a sufficient deterrent to this particular self-destructive train of thought, but, then again, he never usually let himself indulge in it to such an extent, either.

_France_, he thought, trying to dredge up the ancient, familiar irritation at the mere shape of the name in his mind. It didn't come, so he dug a little deeper: _Scotland. Scotland's voice, Scotland's face, and Scotland's damn stupid fucking advice which had ruined what should have been a perfectly pleasant holiday._

_And America… Just America, from how he trampled roughshod over anything and everything that stood in his path without seeming to notice who it affected, right down to the way he cracked his knuckles whenever he was deep in thought about something even though he knew England couldn't stand the so–_

One of America's hands had wrapped around Australia's neck, the ends of his long, blunt fingers tangled with Australia's dark hair. His other hand… Jesus, his other hand was clawed into the turf beneath him, and his head was thrown back as he laughed hoarsely, the sinews flanking his throat taut and straining. It was a sight that England was intimately familiar with, if only as an afterimage from hundreds of nights filled with fevered dreams which sometimes lingered beyond daybreak no matter how deeply he tried to bury them.

_Fuck it._

The heat spread out from England's belly, racing in sparks which coruscated across his skin, making it feel far too tight for his body. Fuck magic, fuck the fae, fuck everything, because England didn't think he could –

Scotland's arm wrapped around England's neck from behind, tight enough to be uncomfortable, but not so much so that it hampered his already laboured breathing any further.

"Fuck's sake, England," Scotland said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "He's practically your son."

The words washed over England like cold water, and had much the same effect; wrenching his attention away from America and dousing the fire rushing through him instantly. He stiffened against Scotland's hold as the old accustomed shame flooded in to take its place. "I don't –"

"Yes, you do." Scotland sniggered, and then lightly tapped his forehead against the back of England's head. "And I'm only messing with you, you prat. I mean, you're not actually his dad, are you. You're more like… Like the Mr Knightley to his Emma. In any case, it was so long ago that the point's pretty much moot by now."

England's body started to relax, though it was beyond him why he was comforted by someone who regularly shagged France's opinion on morality. "I wouldn't have thought that Jane Austen was exactly your scene."

"I watched the latest adaptation, but only because Jonny Lee Miller was in it. And stop trying to change the subject." Scotland's arm slipped from England's neck to encircle his chest, which made England startle slightly; he could only recall a handful of other occasions in the last century that Scotland had hugged him whilst they were both sober – a couple of times during the Blitz and once in 2005 being the only instances that sprang readily to mind. "Like I told you before, you're going to have to decide what you want to do before it drives you mad. Punch him or fuck him. Shit or get off the pot."

"It's not as simple as that, Scotland."

"Maybe not, but it sure as hell isn't as difficult as you've persuaded yourself it is, either," Scotland said, even though he knew full well just how much one of those options would cost England. His arm tightened momentarily, pressing England's back even closer to his chest, before dropping away completely. "Not that I give a shit either way, of course. I'm just sick of you looking like a wet weekend all the time. It's depressing."

"Of course." England meant to allow his brother the easy escape back into their usual indifference, feigned or otherwise, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from adding:

"Thank you, Scotland."

The words tasted strange, but somehow right all the same.

Scotland sighed, and he was clearly unsettled as his voice shook a little as he said, "I am a fantastic big brother," although he did punctuate each word with a rough flick to the back of England's head.

For once, England was almost inclined to agree with him.


End file.
